


Their Moon Was Made of Cardboard

by chagrins



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Phantom of the Opera meets Star Wars, Reylo Smutember 2020, Sex in the Moonlight, Smutember 2020, ben solo is the opera ghost, mutual pining once Rey actually meets Opera Ghost aka Kylo Ren aka Ben Solo, the fantasticks meets star wars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:22:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26473324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chagrins/pseuds/chagrins
Summary: Reylo Smutember 2020 // Day 14: Moonlight“Moonlight - The most romantic of times, especially when the Moon is enormous on the sky. Sex at night, in the moonlight, late night cuddles.”--Rey Daaé dreams of being reunited with her parents. They left her over eleven years ago at Palais Garnier Opera House--with a promise they'd return. Rey won't stop waiting for them.Armitage Hux, the childhood friend from Rey's past, arrives on the night of her debut solo performance. He wants to know about Rey's teacher, but she won't speak of the opera ghost who continues to charm her with his sonorous voice.Ben Solo wears a mask to hide away all his secrets. From within the walls, he's guided Rey for nearly eleven years, often dreaming of her in ways he would never admit to even himself.But on a moonlight night, Ben reveals himself to Rey--and everything changes.--The Phantom of the Opera meets The Fantasticks meets Star Wars.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo
Comments: 8
Kudos: 30
Collections: Reylo Smutember 2020, Smutember 2020





	Their Moon Was Made of Cardboard

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: I do not own Star Wars, The Phantom of the Opera, or The Fantasticks.
> 
> Reylo Smutember 2020 // Day 14: Moonlight
> 
> “Moonlight - The most romantic of times, especially when the Moon is enormous on the sky. Sex at night, in the moonlight, late night cuddles.”
> 
> This fic is Phantom of the Opera meets The Fantasticks meets Star Wars canon.
> 
> The feel of this story is based on the music from The Phantom of the Opera and The Fantasticks. 
> 
> Songs that especially inspired this fic:
> 
> “Their Moon Was Cardboard” (The Fantasticks)  
> “Soon It’s Gonna Rain” (The Fantasticks)  
> “The Music of the Night” (The Phantom of the Opera)  
> “All I Ask of You” (The Phantom of the Opera)
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> -chagrins

**Chapter One**

On the most important night of her life, Rey Daaé’s voice carries through the theatre. Her song reaches the orchestra below, then out to spectators filling every seat in the house, and up into the balconies where the wealthy elite watch her performance.

Rey doesn’t see anyone clearly. How can she? The lights are far too bright. But she knows that all eyes lock on her, watching her debut performance at the Palais Garnier Opera House. Tonight is a momentous occasion. Tonight, they honor a retiring manager of the theatre. Tonight, they usher in the new team taking over.

Rey’s violet gown flows from her body, accented by a white light facing her from above; she feels the warmth hitting the crown of her head. A cardboard moon hangs directly to her right, milky white crescent glowing iridescent in spots where the light hits.

Her insides bundle together, nerves twisting, yet she sings the highest operatic notes with grace, like water flowing from an intricate fountain, sonorous sound lifting from inside of her. She allows the music to sway her—to _move_ her. Her vocal cords vibrate, sound waves gliding over the soft palette and out into the open space. Just the way her teacher always advises.

Control without too much pressure.

Freedom without going wild.

Rey hits the crescendo, and she nears the end of her song. Before she realizes, her time is over. The crowd in the audience rises to their feet. A million hands clap together, cheers causing her to jerk back. She’s never had this much attention on her. Not even when she still lived with Papa and Mama in the French countryside. That was back before they dropped her here in Paris, eleven years ago, at Palais Garnier Opera House. No, not even then, in the years of her blissful youth, had she known this much attention.

Yet in this moment, her moment of glory, her parents are all she can think about. She imagines they’re here in the crowd somewhere, watching during this standing ovation, and gazing upon her with proud eyes. But the nerves in her gut twist even further. She intuitively senses they are not in attendance to see her performance tonight. And she almost hates them for it.

Despite their absence, she takes solace in one thing. Eleven years ago, by the entranceway of the opera house, as Rey cried for her parents and screamed out their names, begging them not to leave her, Papa and Mama promised they’d come back for her.

So, all these years later, she continues to wait for them, keeping her faith in their word. She chooses to believe that one day she’ll see them again. Even if the anxiety crawling around in her stomach suggests otherwise. Hope is better than anger.

A glint of light flashes from the first balcony on the left, and her focus draws to it. Rey peers up at the booth. A male with blond hair, whose features she can’t make out, studies her. A red, blue, and white ribbon crosses his military jacket diagonally, and the ruffles on his shoulders glitter in gold. He holds a reflective piece of silver metal, waving it back and forth, and Rey understands immediately that he purposefully did this to get her attention. From this far away, she doesn’t recognize the man, so she dismisses his unwelcome advances by returning her gaze to the audience.

The applause continues as Rey bows. The house curtains close upstage while she’s taking her final curtseys, and a group of ballerinas in sparkling white leotards emerge from the wings, swarming around her with giggles and smiles. She smiles back pleasantly, thankful for them all; these are young woman she’s known most of her life.

Before tonight, she was one of them.

A slightly older woman, with wrinkles defining her orange skin and thick goggles covering her eyes, rushes toward the group. The woman—better known as Madame Maz—

clasps her hands across her lithe body as she approaches.

“Dear child,” Maz says. “He will be most pleased with your performance tonight.”

“I do hope so.” Rey nods, both apprehensive and excited, all at the same time. She thinks fondly of her nights spent with the Angel of Music and finds herself longing for his sweet melody almost as much as she longs to finally see his face. He’s been nothing more than a phantom, a ghost existing somewhere between the walls. Maybe tonight, if he was pleased with her performance, he’d show himself.

That would be something.

“The rest of you, come!” Maz casts a stern look at the dancers, eyes narrowing into tight slits. “Your performance tonight was abysmal. We have much work to do.”

Maz claps her hands twice and marches away. The ballerinas file into place and follow her.

With the others heading off, Rey decides to escape to her quiet place, and she slowly makes her way up stage and into the wings. She glides along back corridors she recognizes like the back of her hand and slips into a hidden stairwell.

At the top of the steps, on the roof of the opera house, she exits into the naked night. The September weather casts a chill in the air, yet it is still warm enough for her to spend time up here, out in the crisp outdoors, hiding away from all the others.

Careful in her dress, Rey pads over to her usual ledge and perches in the spot, running her fingers across the smooth stone of the building. Here, in the 9th arrondissement of Paris, in the very heart of the city, she views all the twinkling lights, all the hustle and bustle below, and feels as connected as she is disconnected.

A full moon hangs in the sky. Unlike the faux, cardboard crescent back on the stage, this one captivates her. It’s wan and delicate. Faint and tranquil.

Rey outstretches her arms to their full wingspan. She shuts her eyes. A cool breeze laps up in the air and kisses her face.

She pretends it’s something more than air. Like the touch from an Opera Ghost who never makes his presence fully realized.

But then, that would be just a dream.

“Rey?”

Her eyes snap open at the sound of a familiar voice calling her name. She twists, eyes landing on the male from the balcony, the one wearing the uniform. Except now, with his close proximity, Rey discerns his ginger hair, less blond than it had appeared from so far away, and his serious, stoic features. Blue eyes, hardened as they were even as a child, gaze at her.

A smile stretches across her face.

“Armie?” she gasps. “Is that really you?”

A sly grin creeps over his face, but his brows remain fixed in two perpetually concentrated lines. “Yes, well, most refer to me by the name Vicomte Hux these days. But I will always be Armie to you, Little Rey.”

She blushes at the pet name. A name she hasn’t heard since her final summer in the country. Her parents were once good friends with Armie’s, and their families vacationed together in Nice every year until Rey’s family fled their old life.

Rey rushes toward Armie. Without a second thought, she throws her arms around her childhood friend, wishing so badly to feel anything that will bring her back to the happier days of her life. To days when the brightness of the sun surrounded her and always kept the darkness at bay.

“I can’t believe it’s really you,” she says, murmuring into his chest.

Armie clears his throat, taking a step back. “And I you.”

He places some distance between the two of them; this is something he never would’ve done in the past. When he takes her hands in his, Rey swallows the lump in her throat. The last time she saw Armie, he was nothing but a freckle-faced little boy with red hair. A tiny, frail boy who was scared of his own shadow. Now, he’s a man, a man who clearly experienced his own rough times, and she hardly knows him.

“You performed quite beautifully tonight,” he tells her, pressing his thumbs into her palms with a little too much pressure. “I admire your raw talent. It’s evident how hard you work to perfect your skills.”

Rey dips her chin and isn’t sure what to say. Flattery always embarrasses her.

“Tell me, with whom do you study?” Armie asks. “I must meet the tutor who has helped my Little Rey grow into such a marvelous young woman.”

“Oh, he’s…” Rey pauses, biting her lip. “You see, it’s…”

“Yes?” His eyes shine with curiosity, and Rey suddenly wonders about the nature of his visit, and why he’s really here. All those years ago, her parents and her had been running, running from something they dared not speak of with her. Though Rey wants to trust Armie, a familiar face in an otherwise unfamiliar world, something unsettling rests in her stomach. She finds herself wondering if there’s a hidden agenda, if he knew he would run into her. If he’s here specifically because he came looking for her.

“He’s no one. Really,” she says. “Simply a retired stage crew worker with nothing better to do. Besides, Madame Maz has always handled most of my lessons.” Her nose crinkles. She hates the lie, but she lives in a world where she can’t trust anyone. Not easily, anyway.

“Ah, I see,” Armie says. “Retired stage crew certainly explains his attention to detail in his training.” His eyes narrow a tad, as if he doesn’t believe a word of what she just said. A mischievous glint peeks through in his expression. Rey tightens, taking a step back. Now it’s her turn to create some space between the two of them.

“Why are you here, Armie?” she asks, hoping to glean some truth in all this. Their visit has quickly gone from nostalgic and safe to tense.

He smirks. “The former manager’s retirement ceremony, of course. I’m dear friends with the man who is to buy this very theatre.”

“Oh, is that so?”

“Yes, Little Rey.” He closes their distance a little and reaches for her hand. Slowly, and with his eyes glued to her, he lowers to kiss her hand. But there’s something sinister in it, something that tells Rey this is no longer the sweet, innocent boy, but someone else. His lips curl smugly as he presses his lips to her knuckles. When he lifts back up, he bows. “It seems you may be seeing more of me, old friend.”

“It certainly seems that way.” Unlike a few moments ago, when Rey first discovered her friend from the past, panic rushes through her body, and she wonders what Armie’s presence will mean for her future here at the theatre.

Like he senses her discomfort, Armie lowers his head once more.

“Well, I just wanted you to know I was here,” he says. “I do truly hope to see more of you. But, for now, I bid you adieu.”

Armie marches back toward the stairwell, and a second later he is gone.

Rey listens to the wind rustling around her.

And then she hears a loud swoosh from behind, and she knows _he’s_ here.

She knows the Angel of Music heard every word.

But when she turns to look, nobody is there.


End file.
